


Confess Your Sins

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Consent Issues, Discovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Poor judgment, Rank Disparity, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton is needy, Washington is careless, and Lafayette has damnably inconvenient timing.





	Confess Your Sins

At the end of a difficult battle, it's not unusual for the general to leave his highest ranking officers in charge of securing the field. There are ample responsibilities for everyone, supplies to be scavenged, prisoners to contain. A whole new camp to assemble, once a strategic location is settled upon. All of this Washington sometimes leaves in other hands.

Usually he offers some reason. He is commander in chief of the entire Continental Army, after all. There will always be urgent matters competing for his attention.

Today there has been no such explanation. The general simply conveyed his wishes and vanished from sight, leaving no instructions as to where he might be found. Lafayette doesn't generally _mind_ giving orders in his general's stead—he has grown well-accustomed to the weight of authority—but he doesn't like being left in the dark. When his fellows and subordinates ask where Washington is, Lafayette has no answer.

As the familiar contours of an army camp take shape around him, Lafayette oversees every necessity. For a time he ignores the petulant voice in his head insisting the general should not be absent after such a hard-won victory. Decorum might dictate that Washington can't properly join the officers' revels, but he should still _be here_. To be seen, to look on approvingly, maybe even to _smile_ if he is feeling especially benevolent toward the men—though Lafayette would not gamble any of his sizable fortune on such a sight.

Restlessness overtakes his stubbornness before long. He can't quash an irrational spiral of worry alongside the annoyance of not knowing where Washington _is_. Some time alone after a vicious battle is one thing; failing to inform his officers where he can be found is another entirely.

Hamilton would know where to find the general. Even if Washington did not expressly tell him, Hamilton would possess the information somehow. Lafayette has no doubt.

But Hamilton is also not here. And while Lafayette has no idea what task might have taken their little lion from camp, he cannot search simultaneously for both general and aide.

He catches John Laurens by the arm, stopping his friend mid-rush across the open field.

John gives him a curious look. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes." Lafayette knows he is being ridiculous. "Can you step in for me? I need to find and update the general."

John blinks at him. "Of course. We've already found a suitable building for headquarters. I'll oversee the men."

"Thank you." Lafayette squeezes his arm, and turns away from the bustle and noise of the forming camp.

There's a forest not far from the bloodied and empty battlefield, and it's there Lafayette turns his steps. Hurrying, though there is no danger. A stream runs amid the trees—Lafayette can hear it as he steps from sweltering sunlight into cooler shade—and he is confident Washington will have made for the water, to wash the gore from his hands after a battle so bitter.

When he reaches the stream, he picks a direction and turns to follow the bank. The forest is thick here, and he keeps his gaze turned ground-ward. Gnarled tree roots jut up from the earth, scattered all the way down the riverbank. It would be far too easy to catch his boot and stumble.

He's glad the sun is still high. His pace is slow, but at least he can avoid wrenching his ankle or landing on his ass.

Lafayette hears indistinct voices long before he sees anyone. Low, easy, unmistakably _two_ people speaking in soft tones. It takes him several more steps before he can make them out clearly enough to identify his general—

And Hamilton. That is unmistakably Hamilton's voice, for all that he's speaking more quietly than Lafayette has ever heard him attempt. It presents a strange quandary—the question of what Hamilton is doing _here_ —when Washington has never once allowed his chief of staff to ride into battle. Hamilton must have broken away from the other aides not long after word arrived of victory and then... What? Crossed the outskirts of the battlefield in secret? To what purpose? Surely if Hamilton has urgent business for the general's eyes there's no reason for secrecy.

Lafayette does his damnedest not to acknowledge the answer nagging at the edge of his thoughts. There's a cloudy suspicion tightening his gut—familiar after these past several months—but he clings to a sliver of willful confusion as he rounds an especially dense cluster of trees.

He raises his eyes from the uneven terrain and freezes, silent and still, as he sees with his own eyes the thing he has been trying so hard _not_ to know.

"—should not have let you talk me into this," Washington is saying, though he sounds strange—strained and breathless—and not at all like he means it. Something needy runs beneath the words; Lafayette has never heard him sound anything like this before.

"You could have been killed," Hamilton hisses raggedly. "You could have— Tench told me about that goddamn maneuver. It was reckless and stupid, and you _could have been killed_."

It is rank insubordination. Unheard of for an officer—even a lieutenant colonel as mouthy and forward as Alexander Hamilton—to dress down his commander. And yet Lafayette can't spare any portion of his thoughts to be surprised at the rebuke, because the words being spoken are _nothing_ to the sight before him.

There's no mistaking what he is seeing, no reasonable explanation for the physical proximity between general and aide. Even if the two men were on terms of closest friendship—a thing which Lafayette has _never_ known them to be—it would not explain the possessive way Washington holds Hamilton in his arms.

There is no space between them. The ribbon is missing from Hamilton's queue, and Washington's fingers twine and twist idly in the loose strands. A lover's touch. A moment later and he nuzzles at Hamilton's throat above the line of his cravat.

"It was necessary." The general's words are barely audible as he tucks Hamilton tighter against him. "And I am _fine_. I'm right here. Surely you can feel just how alive I am."

Hamilton actually smiles at that, forgiveness and something else visible in the bright flash of teeth. "Are you sure you won't let me help with that?"

"We must return to camp, Alexander."

"Your officers are quite capable of making camp without either one of us."

"Yes, but they will wonder where I am."

"Let them wonder," Hamilton retorts. One indiscreet hand slips between their bodies, as the other tugs Washington into a brazen kiss.

Lafayette stares, frozen where he stands. He knows he should interrupt. He should have announced his presence the moment he cleared the trees. The instant he saw them. He should have spoken when they could all still claim some small fragment of denial to walk away with.

But it's too late now, and a wall of disbelief holds him rooted voiceless to the spot.

Not disbelief at the _fact_ of an affair between General Washington and his right hand man. Lafayette has harbored reluctant suspicions too damn long to be surprised now that the proof is before him. No, he simply cannot believe he has caught them. 

That Hamilton would give in to reckless impulse seems a given; that _Washington_ should be so careless is unthinkable. And Lafayette finds himself helpless to conjure an appropriate response.

The kiss ends, and the men do not part.

Lafayette clears his throat.

\- — - — - — - — -

The quiet cough jolts Washington, like a blade between the ribs, and he takes his hands off his boy in an instant.

There is no space in his mind for anything but reaction and instinct, and he moves before he's processed any further information—shoving Hamilton behind him, putting himself bodily in the way of any threat. His heart, already beating fast with Alexander so close, races with painful speed now. There is ice clogging Washington's throat and a throbbing panic beneath his skull.

His battle-weary body is ready to fight.

He is instinctively braced for the worst, and so he blinks in surprise when he sees only Lafayette standing amid the trees. His heart does not slow. Lafayette is not the worst possible witness—he is too loyal to throw close friends to the wolves—but he is still a _witness_. He should not be here.

Behind him, Washington can feel Hamilton pressing close along his back, clutching his arm to peer past his shoulder. 

An eloquent string of curses erupts from the boy, mostly in French, and then Hamilton steps from behind him.

"Lafayette, what the hell are you doing here?" There is flustered determination on the boy's face.

Lafayette's eyes turn to Hamilton with an uncharacteristically guarded look. "I was searching for the general. I did not expect to find you as well."

Despite the fact that the words are deliberately bland—devoid of even the faintest hint of censure—Lafayette's statement raises a visible flush to Hamilton's cheeks. Even if Lafayette had not witnessed them _in flagrante_ , it would be uncomfortably obvious what he has interrupted. Hamilton's hair is a mess, his ribbon missing, his face warm with arousal. His mouth is red, lips swollen from hard kisses.

Both their uniforms are rumpled.

"I don't suppose you'd believe this isn't what it looks like," Hamilton tries, though his tone is dry and resigned.

Lafayette's expression melts just for a moment, into disbelieving fondness as he regards Alexander. It's an expression Washington knows well. He has worn it often enough himself.

When Lafayette's attention returns to him, it's with all the blank composure of a moment before. Washington feels his spine straighten in answer.

It is disconcerting to take in the familiar lines of Lafayette's face and have no idea what the young marquis is thinking.

"Alexander." Washington pitches his voice low and conciliatory. "I think it would be best for you to return to camp. Check on the state of my new headquarters."

Hamilton's focus whips from marquis to general, and his expression is bright and open. Offended.

Furious.

"You're _dismissing_ me? _Now_?"

"You are my chief of staff," Washington points out, though it's a thin excuse and Lafayette's cryptic stare digs into him all the harder at the words. " _One_ of us must be in camp."

"Bullshit," Hamilton snarls. "You're sending me away so you can talk behind my back."

Washington's eyes close for just a moment. He is _so tired_ , worn thin from a lengthy battle. Hungry for his boy, desperate to protect him, guilty with the knowledge that if he had ordered Hamilton back to camp in the first place they would not have been discovered.

When he opens his eyes, Hamilton is still glaring at him.

"Please," Washington says simply, softly. He knows full well that sternness will not convince Hamilton to give ground when his pride is pricked, but gentleness might coax him to reason. "There is nothing I intend to divulge that you would not tell him yourself."

"Then why not let me stay?" Hamilton retorts, but he is subsiding. The worst of the fight has eased from his shoulders.

"Please," Washington repeats, softer still. "Return to camp. The marquis and I will follow shortly." At least, he hopes they will; he cannot cope with a lengthy rebuke when he is already so damn tired.

Hamilton's shoulders slump, and he glances back and forth between Washington and Lafayette. Perhaps hoping Lafayette will argue in his favor. An unlikely prospect. From every unspoken indication, it is not Hamilton with whom Lafayette is upset. Nor should it be. Aside from a basic lack of discretion—a failing Washington has repeatedly proven himself to share—Hamilton has done nothing wrong.

Washington's behavior is a different matter. Though he stands prepared to defend himself, he would just as soon do it without an audience. Even Hamilton. From the carefully blank silence that is Lafayette's only answer, they are clearly in accord.

After a moment, Hamilton straightens his posture and takes a decisive step back.

He still looks angry, but there is resignation in the way his eyes cut downward, toward the forest floor.

"Sir." Hamilton tucks his chin down in a deferential nod, body settling into the familiar stance of military attention. He does not raise his eyes or acknowledge Lafayette when he asks, "Will I see you in camp, sir?" It's not a subtle question. Hamilton is asking for the kind of reassurance Washington does not dare offer in front of even this, his most trusted friend.

"I will speak with you when I return," Washington says. It's the best he can do. Of course he will see his boy in camp, will have Hamilton in his bed tonight no matter how this confrontation plays out. Hamilton's bedroll in the corner of his private quarters will go as unused as ever.

If discretion were going to carry the day, he would have ordered Hamilton away months ago.

"Yes, sir." Reluctant acquiescence. But Hamilton raises no further arguments, and with one final displeased glance toward Lafayette, he disappears into the trees in roughly the direction of camp.

Leaving Washington alone to face down the grim disapproval of his closest friend.

Silence prevails between them for a time. Lafayette's face remains inscrutable, and Washington can't tell if he is deliberately waiting for his general to speak first, or if he's at a genuine loss. If it's the latter, Washington understands perfectly. He is in no better straits himself.

Doing his best to keep his own expression neutral, Washington breaks the fruitless staring contest and scans the trees. He is relieved Lafayette has come alone, but now he finds himself paranoid that other interlopers could be hiding amid the thickly clustered trunks.

"No one else is looking for you yet," Lafayette murmurs beside him. "I alone volunteered to seek you out."

"Just the same." Washington moves away from the trees. He makes his way down the riverbank, sure-footed despite the slippery moss along the steep incline. He stops at the water's edge, a spot in the open, far enough from the trees to prevent any unknown eavesdroppers from overhearing their conversation. There is also the steady, stumbling rush of the river itself as it hurries along past tree roots and boulders. Kicking up just enough sound to offer a scrap of privacy.

Neither of these things will protect them if they raise their voices. But Washington does not intend to raise his voice, and Lafayette...

In all honesty, it's difficult to tell _what_ Lafayette intends. But the marquis is not a man quick to anger, and Washington is depending upon him to keep a level head.

Lafayette joins him, taking up a position to Washington's left and standing with his hands clasped stiffly behind his back. He takes in the stream far too deliberately. Obviously making a concerted effort to collect his thoughts.

When at last Lafayette speaks, there is heavy feeling twining beneath the thick accent and clipped words. "You are both damnably lucky I came looking for you alone."

"I know," Washington concedes.

They _are_ lucky, and not just because it's only Lafayette who has discovered them. They are lucky, too, that he witnessed _this_ moment and not one of their more physical encounters. The ways in which Washington so often touches Hamilton—the ways Hamilton is desperate to be touched. He can imagine how a more passionate moment might have looked to an outsider. God, the nights Hamilton fights him and Washington holds him down anyway...

How could anyone, even Lafayette, grasp all the layers of negotiation and understanding that stand as a bulwark beneath their more brutal encounters? How could anyone see Washington force Alexander roughly to the ground and understand the desperate affection in every touch?

No one could. There is more than one reason their affair remains a secret.

He shakes such thoughts from his head. "I appreciate your discretion. If anyone else were to suspect—"

"You don't employ idiots, Your Excellency," Lafayette interrupts, soft but stern. There is no sign of his usual deference. "Everyone already suspects."

The words chill Washington's insides, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "Everyone?"

"Your staff. Your aides. We are not fools. No one speaks of it, but the suspicion is there." A pause, a cock of that regal head. "Except John Laurens, perhaps. I cannot fathom how he does not see it, but if he did he would surely have challenged you to a duel by now."

Washington snorts, amused despite the twist of ice behind his ribs. Lafayette is right, of course. Laurens has had ample opportunity to observe the marks and bruises Hamilton sports following their encounters; if he knew it was _Washington_ bestowing those hurts he would not sit idly by.

"He is supremely protective of our Alexander," Lafayette concludes.

"And _you_ knew," Washington observes. Dry, exhausted, resigned. There's no point denying anything now.

"I suspected. I have been very careful _not_ to know. To maintain..." Lafayette tapers off searching for the words.

"Plausible deniability?"

Lafayette snaps his fingers in agreement. "Just so."

Washington draws a steadying breath. There is guilt in his chest, cool and unpleasant. Not for the things he does to Hamilton—he has long since made peace with what he and his Alexander are to each other—but for the harm he has all too knowingly done in keeping these secrets.

"I apologize sincerely for putting you in this position, my dear Marquis."

Lafayette finally takes his eyes from the river and looks at him. "It is not like you to be careless."

"No," Washington agrees, grudging and displeased. "My better judgment seems to have deserted me." He is not proud of this fact, and he is not at all comfortable admitting it aloud. Washington knows full well that his judgment cannot be trusted where his boy is involved. But he also knows just as surely: he cannot live without him.

"Because of Alexander?" Lafayette asks, far too knowingly.

"Yes." There's no point denying it now.

"General, I mean no disrespect." Lafayette speaks in a lower tone now, tentative and cautious. "But what in the name of Heaven are you doing?"

Washington's spine straightens. Despite the candor of their conversation so far, he bristles at the question, instantly defensive. It's with difficulty that he shoves the reaction down. He reminds himself that Lafayette is a friend—to himself and Hamilton both—and after what the man witnessed, it is understandable that he should worry.

This does not mean Washington is under any obligation to answer such intimate questions. "That's not your concern."

"You are wrong." Lafayette's stubbornness takes him by surprise. The caution evaporates, leaving quiet iron in the marquis's tone. "It _was not_ my concern. But you have made it my concern. I can no longer tell myself the convenient fiction that I am imagining intimacies where none exist. I have seen with my own eyes what you are to each other."

An unexpected flash of genuine anger spikes in Washington's blood.

"You assume too much," he snaps. The glimpse Lafayette saw was damning, yes, but it was only a glimpse. The claim that he knows more, that he comprehends what Hamilton is to Washington...

Washington himself is still figuring out just what Alexander is to him. Is still overwhelmed daily by how deeply the boy has burrowed into his heart.

Lafayette does _not_ know the scope of things. He does not know what he's talking about. And the very idea offends Washington to his core. He will not allow anyone, not even Lafayette, to speak of them this way.

Lafayette's eyes narrow at the censure, but he does not back down. The iron does not ease. "Perhaps. But you have not answered my question. Under the circumstances, I think you owe me _some_ explanation."

The damnable thing is, Lafayette is right. Washington turns away. Lets his own gaze drift downstream. 

"What do you want to know?"

Lafayette takes an almost soundless step nearer. He is standing directly at Washington's elbow now. Hovering close, as though he can will his general to be honest with him through proximity alone. There is contrary gentleness in his voice when he says, "I want to know how you justify this to yourself."

Washington's neck twinges from turning his head so fast, and his eyes widen as he stares at the man before him. "What _precisely_ are you accusing me of?"

"Hamilton is an officer under your direct command." Lafayette does not retreat. "You are not only his superior, but commander in chief of the entire Continental Army. _No one_ outranks you. And you have taken a boy of no fortune and no social standing into your bed."

Washington's chest rushes cold, and he recoils. Nearly stumbles on the soft soil of the riverbank as he backs away. Carefully as the words were spoken—soft as Lafayette's expression remains—Washington recognizes in them an accusation of the worst sort.

"I did not coerce him." Washington's voice is tight with denial. "I would never use my station to take advantage of _any_ officer under my command."

"Of course you would not." Lafayette speaks with such sincerity that Washington feels a faint glimmer of relief. "But sir, surely you realize how it looks. And Hamilton..."

"What _about_ Hamilton," Washington growls.

Lafayette, uncowed, takes a single step forward. "Hamilton would do anything for your approval."

Washington's blood pounds louder in his ears, and he shakes his head. "Not this. Never this."

"Are you so certain?"

" _Yes_ ," Washington snaps.

He _is_ certain. Entirely. Profoundly. But he can hardly lay his reasoning at Lafayette's feet. It's a matter far too private. Hamilton, prickly and prideful as he is, would never forgive him for sharing such intimate secrets. Not even with the Marquis de Lafayette. Hamilton has not told John Laurens, and that is all Washington needs to know.

"Forgive me, Your Excellency." Lafayette ducks his head. "I worry only for your reputations." Except it could not be more clear Lafayette's worry stems from deeper concerns. For their wellbeing. For _Hamilton's_ wellbeing.

Washington swallows back a font of protest.

"How long have you harbored suspicions?" he asks at length. "And why do you ask these questions only now?"

"Because they were only suspicions. And because Alexander is a dear friend, who has been happier these past months than I have ever seen him."

Washington's heart lurches sideways at the statement. In other circumstances it would be a pleasant thing to hear; in this moment it is jarring, following on the coattails of Lafayette's sharp-edged questions.

He draws a shaky breath. "Then why in _God's name_ do you accuse me of such vile things?"

Lafayette looks not the least bit chastened. "Because you _must consider_ the appearance of the thing. It's clear you have both left good sense far behind you. But sir, _think_. If you are discovered, it is Hamilton alone who will suffer the full consequences of your indiscretion."

Washington blanches at the very idea, but he cannot refute it. The consequences to both of them would be disastrous, certainly. By all rights, discovery should bring punishment down on Washington's head alone, because he is the power and the authority over the entire army. But he can envision all too clearly a different path. One where Hamilton is thrown to the wolves as expendable, an upstart who has already made far too many enemies of powerful men.

The idea is hideous. It fills Washington with a sickening surge of denial.

He will never let that happen.

But in the event of discovery, what power will he have to protect the boy?

"You are right." Washington feels the fight drain out of him in an almost painful rush. His shoulders slump. He is suddenly even more fatigued than he was before they began this awful conversation. Exhausted by the weight of history and responsibility. "I have been unforgivably careless."

He will never forgive himself if he leads Alexander to ruin.

"But you will not end this affair," Lafayette observes disapprovingly.

"I _cannot_ end this affair." Even if he were willing to try—and he does not want to try—Hamilton would never allow it. Washington gave his word that he would _keep_ Alexander. He received a solemn promise in exchange. If Hamilton changes his mind—if he chooses to distance himself after all—Washington will allow it. But he cannot be the one to walk away. He will not break his word, and he will not leave his boy behind.

" _Sir_." Lafayette sounds agitated now. There's a hint of genuine fear. "I'm sure he is a spirited bed partner, but is he really worth the risk of mutual disgrace? Of _worse_?"

"He is worth _everything_ ," Washington thunders, unthinking. He freezes the instant the words are out of his mouth, appalled at his own unthinking candor. He did not mean to raise his voice, and he certainly did not mean to confess so much. He is horrified with himself and his thoughtless tongue.

Lafayette's expression shifts before his very eyes, and Washington holds his breath. The fear fades by degrees, replaced in moments by something that looks far too much like pity.

"Oh, sir—"

"Do not look at me like that," Washington snaps.

"I'm sorry," Lafayette says anyway, drawing carefully closer. "I did not realize."

" _Enough_ ," Washington pleads.

"Does he know that you love him?"

Washington's eyes dip closed. Just for a moment. He has never in his life felt so utterly and defenselessly naked. He does not relish the feeling.

But there's no point denying the truth.

"Yes," he admits grudgingly. "He knows."

"And does he feel the same?"

 _Yes_ , Washington's heart screams, but he knows better than to speak the word aloud. It's not his secret to share. He blinks at his friend, and finally answers, "You will have to ask him that yourself."

"We both know he will not tell me," Lafayette says, and at last some of the unbearable weight eases from his voice. There's a hint of humor to the observation.

Washington arches one eyebrow. "Then I suppose you will never know."

\- — - — - — - — -

Even after he dismisses Lafayette, Washington lingers for a while beside the river. He is anxious to return to camp—to reassure Alexander that their secret remains safe—but there is far too much noise in his own head. He needs a moment. Several moments. Privacy and quiet to consider the future.

They will need to be more careful. He as much as promised this to Lafayette, though even if he hadn't the necessity would remain. To have been discovered... It is not a chance they can take again.

He still fears this is a promise he is doomed to break. His best intentions always seem to crumble where Alexander Hamilton is involved.

But he will try. He will do better. He _will not_ risk Alexander's future for his own selfish desires. 

They will find a safer balance; they will learn to be discreet.

He emerges from the woods to the sight of the army's newest camp taking shape. There's a small tavern at the edge of a closely clustered little town, and from the glimpse Washington gets as he draws near—various members of his staff coming and going, hurried with purpose—it is clear _this_ is the building that's been requisitioned for their new headquarters.

He receives salutes from every officer he passes, and nods to them all in turn. Mostly he is relieved that no one approaches to speak with him. He has trained his men well. They know what's expected, what is necessary, without need of orders every step of the way.

Inside his new headquarters he climbs to the second floor of the tavern. A glance through one door reveals a room-for-rent already converted into his sleeping chambers. Hamilton's bedroll sits bundled in one corner, waiting to be unrolled even though it will not be slept in.

On the other side of the hall, another room has been cleared of its furnishings and filled instead with Washington's desk, sturdy chairs, a mountain of correspondence. His private office. He steps across the threshold and closes the door, relieved at the moment's privacy. Downstairs there is the steady cacophony of voices. The front door slams at unpredictable intervals as his aides come and go.

He does not summon Hamilton, but it's only a few minutes before the boy appears anyway. Not bothering to knock—Hamilton never bothers to knock—before storming through the door and into Washington's newly appointed office. The door closes with a heavy click behind him. After a barely discernible pause, Hamilton sets the latch before striding to the center of the room.

The boy's uniform is no longer rumpled. His hair has been pulled tightly back in a fresh ribbon, and there is not a single strand out of place. He looks as pristine and soldier-like as Washington has ever seen, but for the glint of rebellious fire sparking in dark eyes.

He is beautiful.

Washington dismisses the thought. There will be time for such indulgences later.

Before he has any chance to break the silence himself, Hamilton speaks in a rush. "Lafayette would never reveal us, sir. He'll keep our secret."

"Yes," Washington agrees. He leans against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "But there are others who would not be so loyal."

Hamilton's posture stiffens. "No one else knows."

"Not yet," Washington murmurs. "But they inevitably will if we continue as we are. We've provided ample opportunity for suspicion." He does not mention Lafayette's suggestion that everyone already _does_ suspect. That they have already endangered themselves unforgivably. He lets the gravity of his tone convey his deeper meaning, and sees Hamilton's eyes widen with comprehension.

The boy's spine is absolutely rigid as he processes the implication beneath the words. Washington has never see him look so tense, and the sight is nearly enough to break his heart.

"If you're suggesting we stop—" Hamilton says in a choked voice.

"No," Washington interrupts, unwilling to let him think such a thing for even an instant. "No, my boy. Not unless that is something _you_ want."

"Never," Hamilton breathes, edging closer. Not quite near enough to touch, though there is something almost palpable in their mutual desperation to close the distance.

"We have been incautious, Alexander. _I_ have been incautious." He resists the urge to reach out and drag his boy against him. "We must consider the appearance of things. My own behavior has been unconscionable. I've exposed you to needless risk." He lays no portion of this blame at Hamilton's feet. No matter how unsubtle his boy's seductions have been, it is Washington who bears the age, experience, authority to know better.

Hamilton is watching him closely. "What do we do?"

"We exercise greater restraint," Washington says. "We protect our private affairs behind sturdier walls. I will endeavor to keep my hands to myself when we are not truly alone."

Hamilton's displeasure is obvious in his grim scowl, even before he says, "I don't like it."

God, of course he doesn't like it. Washington doesn't like it either. He has grown accustomed to touching his boy whenever and however he pleases. He loves Hamilton's constant eagerness, loves forcing him to his knees at the slightest provocation. Loves showing Hamilton just how thoroughly he is _Washington's_ to claim and use and hurt.

"I know," he murmurs, and at last gives in to temptation, reaching for his boy and drawing him closer. Not into an embrace, but placing him near enough that Hamilton's palms settle flat against his chest and the boy has to tilt his head back to meet Washington's eyes. "But this is necessary. Exposure would not only ruin us both, it would separate us entirely. I _will not_ lose you, Alexander." It's the same reason he has refused, time and time again, to give over command of a battalion. He would be lost without Hamilton; he cannot bear even the thought.

Hamilton's eyes widen and he inhales sharply. He is uncharacteristically silent as he absorbs his general's words. Thinking them through, taking them to heart. Perhaps sensing the fears, both spoken and not, that run beneath the assertion.

"You won't forsake me?" Hamilton asks at last, soft and low and desperate.

" _Never_." He tugs his boy flush against him now, lets go only to frame that beautiful face between his hands. "I swear on my honor as a soldier. I will not leave you behind." He wants desperately to claim a kiss, but he does not dare. Not in this moment, with discovery so close behind him. Not when he cannot trust himself to be gentle, or to be satisfied with only a kiss. He can't send Alexander back down among the aides with fresh bruises and kiss-swollen lips, not when the others surely know exactly where he is right now.

Hamilton presses closer, nuzzling beneath his jaw. There's neediness in the way he clings to the front of Washington's uniform. "And am I still welcome in your bed tonight?"

Washington should say no. Surely if the others suspect, this is a dangerous detail. Hamilton's place in his chambers, the empty bedroll on the floor that has never once been used. The closest Hamilton ever comes to sleeping on the floor is when a knock summons Washington's attention late at night, and Hamilton must feign sleep in the spot properly assigned to him, so that Washington can open the door to messengers and sentries.

But then, surely it would look all the more suspicious to abruptly evict Hamilton from his quarters.

"Tonight and always," he says at last.

Hamilton breathes a relieved sound and curls tighter against his chest.

Washington wraps his boy in a possessive embrace, and pretends not to notice the way Hamilton trembles in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** if that is a place anyone still goes. In the rare instance I'm inspired to post things that aren't fic--or participate in wider fandom happenings--that's where you'll find me. :D


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